


Manners Maketh Man

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU Accurate Cursing, AU Accurate Violence, Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anakin is Eggsy, BAMF Obi-Wan Kenobi, Bar Room Brawl, British Slang, Gen, Mark Anakin Down As Scared And Horny, Obi-Wan Kenobi needs some sleep, Obi-Wan is Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: “Sky.” Turning, Sky noticed a well-dressed stranger leaning against a wall, umbrella in hand and a curious expression on his handsome face. “Would you like a lift home?”“Who the hell are you?” Anakin raised an eyebrow, taking in the man’s outfit – a black-and-white checked blazer with a smart black tie and shoes so shiny Sky could see his face in them. His hair, perfectly coiffed, was dark against his pale skin, and he watched Sky with bright blue eyes that crinkled at the edges with amusement.“The man who just got you released.”“That ain’t an answer.”“A little gratitude would be nice.” The man smirked, and Sky noticed that he had dimples in his cheeks to match the slight divot in his chin. “My name is Benjamin Kenobi. I gave you that medal. Your uncle saved my life.”AKA The Kingsman AU nobody asked for.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	Manners Maketh Man

With shaking fingers clinging to the battered old police phone, Sky dialled the familiar digits and prayed for a miracle.  
  


Outside of the interrogation room, he could hear the faint proud crowings of Inspector McCreedy. The git had been desperate to lock Sky up for as long as he could remember, and if he gave in, the list of Sky’s “companions”, as the old officer put it, could lock up half of London. At least, the half that was under the thumb of Watto. It could mean a reduced sentence, if McCreedy was feeling generous, but Sky knew he’d rather spend the rest of his life in prison than witness the wrath of his stepfather again. He just prayed that whatever happened, the rotten old bastard wouldn’t take it out on his mum. Not again.  
  


The phone rang and rang, and Sky shivered.  
  


With his spare hand, he turned over the medal he’d been wearing as a necklace for the past few months. The pink circle had won him a black eye from one of Watto’s cronies, but he still felt drawn to the elegant golden braiding that composed the middle section. It looked delicate – too delicate to be a military medal. Just like Uncle Q had always sounded too delicate to be a soldier.  
  


“Customer Complaints Department – how can I help?” A cool female voice broke Sky out of his thoughts and he swallowed, a bead of sweat running down his neck. He wasn’t sure who he’d been expecting to answer, but the woman sounded too… normal to be of any help. He prayed that he hadn’t misdialled, and cleared his throat.  
  


“My name’s Sky Walker – I mean Andrew Walker.” He grimaced at the use of his real name; no-one apart from his mother called him Andrew anymore, and he was happier that way. The name was too stuffy, too boxed-in, for Sky’s liking. But he supposed he needed to get used to it. If he ended up in court, there was no way he’d be able to convince a judge to use his nickname, after all. Not if he wanted to celebrate his 25th birthday anywhere but a cell.  
  


“Hello Mr Walker. What can I do for you today?” The woman replied, not missing a beat. However, she didn’t recognise his name either – not that she would. As a kid, Sky had debated calling the number before, when Watto’s treatment of his mum had gotten particularly vile. He’d always dreamed that all he’d say was his name, and a group of super-soldiers would kick down his door and scoop him and his mum away, pummelling Watto into the dirt for good measure.  
  


“I’m up shit’s creek.” Sky winced as his voice wavered, and he pressed a hand to his still aching ribs, willing himself to keep calm. Why the fuck had he stolen Sleemo’s car? Yes, the prick had deserved it, for threatening Sky and his mates. But why had he taken it on a joyride through London? Why couldn’t he have just taken a few deep breaths like his mum always taught him, before walking away and never looking back? But no, he’d fucked it up yet again, and he was finally paying the price for it. “I’m in Holborn Police Station and… and my mum said to call this number if I ever really needed help and-“  
  


“I’m sorry, sir – wrong number.”  
  


“Wait – wait!” He blurted out, trawling through his memory. He tried to recall the exact moment his mother had handed him the medal, and her little speech that went with it. Most of it he’d tuned out – it hurt too much to see her worried, disapproving face after his third brush with the law – but he conjured the magic phrase, thinking of her soft fingers brushing his cheek as she spoke. “ _‘The Force is With Me?’_ ”  
  


There was a beat of silence. Sky waited, his stomach spinning. He thought he heard a slight whirr, and then a click. The woman’s voice returned, smoother than before.  
  


“Your complaint has been duly noted and we hope we have not lost you as a loyal customer.” Before Sky could question her further, the line went dead and silence filled the room. Setting down the phone, Sky buried his face into his hands, fighting back tears. His one shot, and he’d wasted it without knowing. What would his mum say? When would he even talk to her again? He should have called her instead, let her know how much he loved her and-  
  


The door burst open and McSweeney blustered in, bloated face even ruddier than usual. He leaned over the desk, and Sky couldn’t help but flinch. But rather than the officer’s usual smugness, there was a single silent click, and Sky’s cuff fell away. He blinked down at his unbound hands.  
  


“Friends in high places, you little shit.” McSweeney grumbled, folding his arms. Sky got to his feet as quickly as his knocking knees would allow and stared at the officer.  
  


“Am I… free to go?”  
  


“Yes. Don’t expect me to hold the door open for you and all.” He slumped down in his seat and jerked a thumb to the exit. “But if you so much as breathe in the wrong direction, I’ll have you locked up so fast your feet won’t hit the ground.” McSweeney looked up with a final snarl. “Go on, get.”  
  


Not needing to be told twice, Sky darted out of the police station as quickly as he could without raising any alarm. He didn’t even stop to breathe, only doing so when he was out in the chilled, slightly smelly air. But it was fresh and sure on his cheek, and he resisted the urge to whoop with joy as he trotted down the station steps.  
  


He had nearly reached the bottom, when a soft, well-spoken voice interrupted his jubilation.  
  


“Sky.” Turning, Sky noticed a well-dressed stranger leaning against a wall, umbrella in hand and a curious expression on his handsome face. “Would you like a lift home?”  
  


“Who the hell are you?” Anakin raised an eyebrow, taking in the man’s outfit – a black-and-white checked blazer with a smart black tie and shoes so shiny Sky could see his face in them. His hair, perfectly coiffed, was dark against his pale skin, and he watched Sky with bright blue eyes that crinkled at the edges with amusement.   
  


“The man who just got you released.”  
  


“That ain’t an answer.”  
  


“A little gratitude would be nice.” The man smirked, and Sky noticed that he had dimples in his cheeks to match the slight divot in his chin. “My name is Benjamin Kenobi. I gave you that medal. Your uncle saved my life.”  
  


*  
  


Sitting at his favourite table in the thankfully empty Rising Sun pub, Sky watched his new companion at the bar. Ben had insisted on paying, though Sky had suggested getting a pint as thanks for his release. He’d asked for the cheapest lager going, and was pleasantly surprised when Ben brought back a pint that tasted half decent. His own beverage, dark and foamy, sat opposite him, untouched.  
  


“You don’t look like a soldier.” Sky blurted out, causing the stranger to raise one sculpted eyebrow. From the few photos his mother had saved, Anakin knew his uncle had been a mountain of a man, all broad shoulders and lean muscle, with a crooked nose that had been broken in several places. Ben, by comparison, was almost dainty; slim and sleek, with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. His hands – pale, freckled and with long slender fingers – rested on the table.  
  


“What do soldiers look like?” Ben replied, watching Sky over the rim of his dark spectacles. Sky crossed his legs, and sat up a little straighter, glancing at the window in an effort not to notice the way the pub’s shitty lighting revealed the auburn tint to his dark hair.  
  


“So where were you posted? Iraq or something?” He asked, watching Ben out of the corner of his eye. The man didn’t flinch, smiling softly as he ran his finger around the rim of the glass.  
  


“I’m sorry, Sky – that’s classified.” He replied, without a hint of irony.  
  


“But my uncle saved your life.” Sky felt a proud smile creep onto his face at the thought. His mother never mentioned how Uncle Q had died, and Sky had never pressed it. Still, it felt right, knowing his  
uncle had given his life in the service of something good, rather than being another military fuck-up like Sky had feared. Uncle Q had always been his personal hero but to have it confirmed by someone else was a relief.  
  


But as Sky’s grin grew, he watched Ben’s fade, his gaze dropping to watch a droplet of condensation slide down his glass. Sky noticed for the first time that Ben was much younger than Uncle Q had been, even in his mother’s most recent photographs. In fact, the stranger was closer to his mother’s age than his uncle’s, though the creases in his brow made him look more mature.  
  


“The day we lost your uncle, I missed something. If it weren’t for his courage, my mistake would have cost the lives of every man present.” His voice rumbled, soft and sombre. He was too well-bred to fidget, but Sky had seen enough guilty consciences to know what Ben rubbing his chin meant. For some reason, Sky wanted to reach out and take his hand, but didn’t dare move closer than taking another sip of his pint. “Your uncle was a brave man, a good man.”  
  


Sky could have sat for hours listening to Ben talk so warmly about Uncle Q, but when Ben looked up, his face creased into a scowl, eyes flashing from behind his glasses.  
  


“And having read his files, I think he’d be bitterly disappointed in the choices you’ve made.”  
  


“You can’t talk to me like that.” Sky scoffed, folding his arms and sliding down in his seat. He’d heard the lecture so many times – from his teachers, from the police, from his mum – that he could have chanted it in time with Ben.  
  


“Huge IQ, great performance at primary school.” Sky shook his head, resisting the urge to pull his cap down over his eyes. That had always wound his headmistress up – no doubt Ben would get equally irate. “Then it all went tits up, didn’t it?” Oh great, now the man in the checked jacket was trying to sound cool. Sky felt his stomach roll, and tried to convince himself it was disgust. “Gambling, drugs, petty crime, never had a job…”  
  


“Oh, you think there’s a lot of jobs going round here?” He snapped, pressing his lips together.  
  


“Doesn’t explain why you gave up your hobbies.” Ben leaned in, and Sky got a whisper of his cologne. Something old and oaky, richer than anything Sky could afford. “First prize regional gymnastics champion three years running. Your coach had you pegged for the Olympics.” Sky’s eyes widened – the guy must have really done his research. That sort of detail hadn’t gone much further than a few meetings between his coach and his mother. Even Sky hadn’t known how successful he was until after he quit. “If that got tedious, you could always fall back on a robotics career. The word ‘prodigy’ was not used lightly.” That was enough to make Sky twitch, thinking back to his room littered with old bits of televisions that Watto would occasionally throw his way. Probably all stolen goods, but he enjoyed restoring them to usable condition. It was like one hundred puzzles rolled into one.  
  


“Yeah well, when you grow up around someone like my stepdad, you pick up new hobbies quick.” He growled, staring at his hands. For once, his knuckles weren’t scuffed up and purple, either from slamming into a doorframe or someone’s face. He’d been trying to behave, for his mum’s sake if nothing else. With the baby on the way, it wasn’t like she needed any more stress.  
  


“Of course. Always someone else’s fault.” Ben rolled his eyes, and Sky sat up, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. If Ben sensed his rage, he quelled it with a single tilt of his head. “Who’s to blame for you quitting the marines? You were halfway through and doing remarkably.” He clasped his hands under his chin, and suddenly Sky didn’t feel so charitable about his fingers, as well-manicured as they were. “But you gave up.”  
  


“Because my mum went mental.” Anakin snarled, leaning across the table to get closer to the man’s face. If they’d been standing, he would have pushed the stranger’s chest for good measure. “Started banging on about how I’d end up like Uncle Q. Didn’t want me being cannon fodder for snobs like you - judging people like me from your ivory towers, without so much of a thought of why we do what we do. We ain’t got much choice.” Now he was so close, Sky could track every inch of Ben’s face, but found no movement. He seemed as serene as if he’d been listening to one of those shitty meditations his mum had fallen in love with. “And if we were born with the same silver spoons up our arses, we’d do just as well as you. If not better.”  
  


Sky wanted to sit back and gloat, ready for whatever shite excuse Ben dredged up next, but he was robbed of the opportunity by the pub’s door slamming open, and Sleemo’s nasal voice squeaking over the faint radio.  
  


“What the fuck are you doing here? You taking the piss?”  
  


“Some more examples of young men simply in need of a silver suppository?” Ben asked, and Sky would have laughed, but his heart seemed to have taken up all the room in his throat.  
  


“No, there are always exceptions.” Anakin tried to push off from his seat, but Ben stayed put as Sleemo moved closer, his ugly bunch of cronies flanking him like stinking wings. “We need to get out of here.”  
  


“Nonsense. We haven’t finished our drinks.” Ben picked up his pint for the first time, taking a slow sip of the dark liquid as he eyed their new company.   
  


“After you nicked his car, Watto says you’re fair game.” Derek – Watto’s oldest and fattest henchman – smirked, jerking a tobacco-stained thumb at Anakin’s face, the stench of body odour rolling off him as he leaned in close. “And he doesn’t give a shit what your mum says.”   
  


“Listen, boys, I’ve had a rather trying day.” Sky cringed as the gang turned their dumb faces to ogle at Ben, who had tilted his drink affably towards them. “Whatever your beef with Sky is – and I’m sure it’s well-founded –“ Ben’s snide comment slid over Sleemo’s greasy head, and Sky clenched his hands into fists underneath the table. “I’d appreciate it enormously if you could just leave us in peace, until I’ve finished this lovely pint of Guinness.” He took another sip, and Sky was distracted for a moment by the total fondness that crossed Ben’s face as he drank. He looked more content than ever when he set down his glass, eyes crinkling as he blinked innocently. Sky realised that no matter how bad the battering he got from Sleemo was, it was worth it to see Ben soften like that.  
  


“You best get out of the way, grandad, or you’ll get hurt and all.” Sleemo leaned down but still Ben didn’t break, meeting his eye without so much as an intake of breath. His calm exterior seemed to rile the gang even more, and Sky did reach out for Ben’s arm this time, giving it a little shake.  
  


“He ain’t joking – you should go.” Ben turned and locked eyes with Sky. After a moment, he gave a little sigh, and nodded. When he stood, Sky could see the man didn’t even reach Sleemo’s shoulder. Luckily, the gang parted and let him slip through, swinging his umbrella as he went.  
  


“You want another rent boy, they’re on the corner of Smith Street.” Derek chortled to himself and Sky cringed, praying Ben hadn’t heard. The man’s umbrella tapped gently against the floor as he paused in front of the exit. The gang fell quiet as Ben reached for the door’s lock, twisting it shut in one swift, sleek movement.  
  


“Manners.” He reached up and bolted each door, the metal sliding against each other the only sound.  
  


“Maketh.” Discreetly, he tugged the little lacy curtains across the door, blocking out the light as much as he could and triggering a cloud of dust as he did so. Sleemo coughed.   
  


“Man.” With one last flourish, he turned the pub’s vacancy sign to closed, laying his hand against the cold glass for just a moment.  
  


“Do you know what that means?” He glanced over his shoulder, locked eyes with Sky, and _winked_. Sky cringed as the gang swarmed closer. He didn’t know who this guy thought he was, but there was no way he could take on seven meatheads. Sky thumbed his mobile, wondering at what point he’d need to phone for medical assistance. Would Sleemo even leave anything behind to scoop up into an ambulance?  
  


“Then let me teach you a lesson.” With an elegant, almost lazy stretch, Ben hooked the tip of his umbrella around a nearby pint glass. In one smooth move, he sent is sailing through the air, and straight into Sleemo’s forehead. The lanky man sank like a felled tree, his gang parting as he toppled to the ground. Every jaw in the bar dropped, apart from Ben’s.  
  


“Are we going to stand around here all day?” He asked, stalking forward. Each of the thug’s turned their fat heads to meet him as he approached, though no-one moved. Ben paused a few steps in front of them, leaning on his umbrella. “Or are we going to fight?”  


One of Watto’s other henchment took Ben up on his offer and went to swing a punch, only to regret it when Ben blocked with his umbrella, sending the thug’s fist straight into Derek’s face, knocking out one of his rotten teeth. Sky watched as the gang tripped over themselves in their eagerness to reach Ben, who was standing perfectly still with an almost bored expression on his face. Every move they threw at him, Ben countered with ease – he kicked high and hard, and slammed his umbrella into various faces, poking its tip at ribs and throats. When one thug approached with a knife, Ben hooked another gang member around the wrist with the umbrella’s handle, pulling him in the way to act as a shield. He even hooked the umbrella around an attacking man’s arm, wrenching it hard enough that Sky heard the snap. Derek – recovered from his lost tooth – was shoved against the bar, shattering glasses. Yet even the makeshift knives didn’t phase Ben – instead, he pressed some sort of button and sent a cable around Derek’s wrist, which bound him to the bar and started giving out shocks.  
  


Sky watched in awe as the bullying men fell, being slammed into each other by Ben’s clever maenouveres. Though he had known Watto’s gang all his life, he felt no sympathy for them. They were the worst kind of people; wife-beaters, gang-land thugs, arseholes who took out their rage on anyone and anything, children and animals included. Sky did notice that, as sharp as Ben’s moves were, none were more damaging that the average Saturday night for these men; all were still breathing, despite their injuries.  
  


In his wonder, Sky almost didn’t notice Sleemo rising from his position on the floor, pulling a gun from the waistband of his trousers. Ben, however, didn’t make the same mistake, turning on his heel and opening his umbrella, crouching behind its protection. Sky wanted to cry out as Sleemo started shooting, but there was no need; the umbrella seemed to absorb the bullets with little to no damage. When the gun ran out of ammunition, Sleemo looked from it to Ben with mounting horror. With a deft little twist of his wrist. Ben sent a small puck flying at Sleemo’s already bleeding forehead, leaving him crumpled on the floor once again.  
  


Straightening up, Ben took half a step towards Sky, but stopped when the barman crawled out of his hiding place to grab the phone. Sky could see him dialling, but Ben raised his arm, tapped at his glinting golden wrist, and a tiny dart sailed from it through the air into the barman’s neck. With a look of surprise, the man glanced at them both, before collapsed onto the bar, spilling the last of the drinks.  
  


Sky looked at Ben.  
  


Ben looked at Sky.  
  


Sky paused, gave an approving nod, and gestured to the seat opposite him. Ben smirked.  
  


Tucking his umbrella in a nearby alcove, Ben slumped down in his seat, unruffled apart from a single loose lock of auburn hair. Reaching out, he took his nearly full pint and chugged it down, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Sighing, he set down his now empty glass, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his mouth.  
  


“Sorry about that. Needed to let off a little steam. A friend of mine died.” Ben pushed back his wayward fringe and Sky realised he actually looked quite tired. Not from the fight – he hadn’t even broken a sweat there – but the sort of tired that a good night’s sleep didn’t fix. Sky had seen it enough times in his mother to feel its familiar throb. “Funny – he knew your uncle too.”  
  


Ben must have taken Sky’s sympathetic smile for one of concern, as both their eyes traced over to the barman, still slumped over and snoring gently.  
  


“He’ll be alright – it’s just a tranquiliser. Not much more severe than what you get at the dentist.” He smiled, revealing gleaming neat teeth that probably saw a professional every month. “Plus a little… something. To numb his memory for a few hours.”  
  


As quickly as he had sat, Ben was on his feet again, looking down at his wrists. One of his cufflinks had been knocked askew in the fight, and he adjusted it, pushing his glasses up his nose. The gesture would have seemed nerdy on anyone else, but seeing what Ben had just done, Sky watched closer. Just in case.  
  


“I’m terribly sorry – I shouldn’t have done this in front of you.” Ben’s tone was light and apologetic, but he raised his wrist and pointed his watch at Sky’s face, just like he had to the barman. Jolting back against the booth, Sky raised both his hands in surrender.  
  


“No, please! I won’t say nothing.” He begged, glancing at the still slumped barman whilst trying not to flinch. “If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep my mouth shut. I’ve never grassed anyone up – ask the coppers.”  
  


“You won’t tell a soul.” Ben narrowed his eyes, and Sky nodded.  
  


“On my mother’s life.” As common as the vow was, Sky never made it easily, and Ben seemed to understand that, his face relaxing. He straightened up, brushed a speck of non-existent dust from his jacket, and picked up his umbrella.  
  


“Much appreciated, Sky.” He smiled, showing off those dimples again, before moving towards the door and unbolting it. Before he could leave entirely, he turned over his shoulder and gave a nod. “And you’re right about the snobs. But there too, there are exceptions.” Raising a hand, he gave a little wave, enough to make the signet ring on his pinkie finger shine. It bore the same signal as Sky’s necklace. “Best of luck with everything.”  
  


Sky listened as the mysterious man’s footsteps faded away, and stared at the empty side of the booth, trying to process everything that he’d seen. As he too stood, placing the used glasses on the bar and stepping over Sleemo’s prone body, a final memory flashed through his mind.  
  


Guinness had been his uncle’s favourite drink. 

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the Kingsman AU! 
> 
> All of the dialogue is verbatim from the Kingsman screenplay (this scene in particular: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDJEyqNw-9k&t=255s) - I tried to write my own words, but honestly, I love the phrasing so much that I just kept it. Harry Hart and Obi-Wan Kenobi have the same energy, which was a really fun discovery. 
> 
> Right now, I'll probably leave this as a little one shot, but I definitely have more ideas if people are interested in seeing more!
> 
> Also - two edits to go with this fic (one of Sky and one of Ben) can be found on my Tumblr - here: https://sandfordsmostwanted.tumblr.com/post/618944704813400064/can-i-offer-you-a-star-wars-kingsman-au-in-these. I was going to put them into the fic itself but... I'm dumb and can't figure it out! Ah well! 
> 
> Take care of yourselves and have an awesome rest of your day!


End file.
